


The Mental Capacity on the MetaPhysical Plane Can Never Amount to How Much Hurt A Memory Can Cause

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vriska has PTSD, depending on how you look at it, karkat is a good morail/matesprite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3595518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PTSD n shit yeah</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mental Capacity on the MetaPhysical Plane Can Never Amount to How Much Hurt A Memory Can Cause

Cool fingers slid over the piano keys, the single sounds stringing together to form a beautiful mourning line. A calming march of solemn hurt, and solitude. Blue eyes flickered as the feminine hands played the only songs they learned. The pain was evident, the notes dragged out longer than usually, and the other person in the room felt it. They felt it oh so deeply, gray hands gripping at the novel in their hands. Empathy can be quite draining.

“Stop it.” the shaky voice wavered out, and the melody came to a halt. A sudden, deathly quiet halt. Black wavy hair swished as the figure at the piano turned to face the other, cold blue eyes meeting bright red in the pressing silence.

“Vriska…” he winced as her hands hit the keys, banging out the last few notes before she stood up stiffly. It wouldn’t leave her mind. It wouldn’t leave. It never would. The thought wormed it’s way into her everyday thinking, forced it’s way into everything she did. She couldn’t take it anymore. She bit her lip, tears long exhausted from her body.

Footsteps across the hard linoleum floor led to her person as warm arms wrapped around the cold figure. Cold, cold, beautiful and cold and hurting. Hurting so, so badly. Crying was out of the question wasn’t it? Then why was he crying for her? Why was he hurting so badly because she was hurting so badly? He doesn’t know. He’ll never know.

But he doesn’t care.

Her pain is his pain now, and her body slumps against his. Her tears are exhausted, her emotions are exhausted and the image will never leave. It never leaves. She grips the piano, trying desperately, just, just to cry. But she can’t. So he cries for her.

But she doesn’t mind.

She doesn’t mind the warm hands turning her around, kissing her cheek, holding her face and whispering things to her. The words are calming. His voice is calming. He is calming. He is a constant, a self loathing constant that she wishes could see how much he helps. She can focus on him, push back the memories, if only for a little while.

Remembering hurts. White hot pain, a flash of the image, and she’s clutching onto him. Just like all the times before. He cries for her, he cries for her pain, he cries for his own, and she clings onto the only constant she’s ever had. A blunt, shouty, honest and amazing constant that she would die without.

He never knows how much he relieves the pain, he wouldn’t be able to gauge it properly. But his smile, as rare as it is, lights up her entire day. And he does. He smiles for her. And she focuses on that.

The image never leaves. The pain never stops. But at least, for only a little while, she can push it back far enough to just focus on the one constant she has.

**And that’s enough for the both of them.**

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually pretty personal for me.  
> I don't have PTSD no, but I've been where Vriska has (I'm in it right now) and something constant is nice.  
> Something to just hold on to is really really nice.  
> So I guess I let my heart bleed out onto this one.  
> Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
